The Federation's Only Consulting Detective
by Russell Landen
Summary: If you love BBC Sherlock...and you love Star Trek...this is the fic for you
1. A Study in Pink: chapter I

_**AN: Sherlock and John are a lot like Kirk and Spock. So I thought how could I put those two together? And I came up with this in my head. Some of it will be stories from BBC Sherlock and some will be my own stuff, but be warned...this fic may or may not get slashy.**  
_

_**And note that I kept some of the original names from Sherlock. **_

_**Please comment!**_

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_Somewhere, most likely quite near to him, someone was dying._

_ The entire bridge was covered in red, alerting light, and it made it hard for him to make out anything on his console. He breathed heavily and prayed to whatever god might exist. _

_ But the alert kept flashing, and the captain kept commanding things of him. Get off your ass and get to the shuttle, the captain yelled at him. He obeyed. _

_ He ran through the commotion around him. He ran through death. And it was then that he realized the damage the Romulan vessel had made to the ship. Even the repair teams couldn't combat it anymore. _

_ Everything was chaos. _

_ When he reached the shuttle they told him the plan. _

_ Space jump. To the source of the inference. Destroy it– somehow. Then beam back up and rescue as many Vulcans as possible. _

_ And as he flew through the atmosphere in his spacesuit, he finally felt fear. Because he saw what that giant thing was doing. It was burning a hole straight through Vulcan. He realized that even if they stopped it– even if they stopped the Romulans– it was all over forever. _

_ He landed painfully and hurt his neck. He didn't want to move. And when he got to his feet and turned around, he saw the Romulans coming out from the hatches. He reached for his phaser..._

_ The Romulan reached for his..._

_ Shots were made..._

_ And he fell to the ground, his knee on fire. _

James Kirk awoke with a sharp pain running through his left leg. He gasped for air as his blurred vision began to clear. He wasn't exactly sure where he was at first until he recognized the flashing light from his portable computer. _The hotel,_ he thought to himself. _That's right..._

He tried to go back to sleep. The haunting images of the year before were still in his mind. But if given the choice, he'd go back to Starfleet. It made him sound a little masochistic, but he enjoyed that fear and pain. It was typically the only time he felt alive.

Yet Starfleet had made it clear: Honorable Discharge meant no coming back. His career as the leader he thought he'd become was over. All of his dreams...all of his confidence...left him the moment he got shot down on that Romulan tunneler.

He had gone back to Riverside to see his mother and brother because that's what injured, Honorably Discharged, ex-Starfleet cadets do– go home. After a year of meals in bed and house-called therapists, he decided the best thing for him to do was get back on his own two feet (or one foot, as the case may be), and start a new life.

So consequently, he went to San Francisco, found a good therapist that dealt with PTSD types, and rented a hotel for a few nights until he could figure out what to do. But even if Starfleet was still giving him money, he found that actually _living _in San Francisco was harder then it seemed.

Even though he would never admit it, James Kirk was hoping for a miracle.

The next morning, Jim sat awkwardly on the side of his bed at stared blankly at the evil thing leaning against the desk. It was an ugly metallic color and long, with a broad, black handle jutting out the top. It was his cane. And he hated it.

He sighed and looked at his watch only to find that he had an hour before his next therapist appointment. He limped to his desk and got on his computer. The last webpage was still open.

**THE BLOG OF JAMES T. KIRK**

"And how's your blog going?" the therapist asked him.

He was sitting in a big brown chair that he suspected was supposed to give him some comforting feeling. "Oh, good. Very good."

She blinked. "You haven't written a word have you?"

"No."

"Jim," she sighed. "You've been through a lot. To witness a genocide is something not many people can relate you. I certainly can't."

"Right," he commented quietly. Watching an entire planet implode into itself scared the living shit out of him. Watching 6 billion people die right before his eyes...that tore him apart.

The therapist jotted down something as she watched him.

"Why'd you write 'trust issues'?" Jim asked.

She looked up at him. "You just read my writing upside down. See what I mean?"

He sulked.

"Jim," she put her pen down. "You have to trust me on this. You've been through a lot. But blogging about everything that happens to you will honestly help."

He looked up at her quizzically. Then his face softened. "Nothing happens to me."


	2. A Study in Pink: chapter II

Greg Lestrade stood at the doorway of the room where he and Donavan would soon have a press release. He sighed, knowing that it would most likely end up to be a disaster. Serial suicides did not exactly keep the press quiet.

Agent Donavan moved cautiously beside him. "Ready, boss?" she asked.

"Now or never, I suppose."

As they walked toward their table, they were bombarded with flash photography. Lestrade politely blinked the pain away rather then throwing most of the camera out the window.

"Hello, everyone," Lestrade began into the mic. "We will only be answering a few questions so keep them brief, please."

"Detective!" a young woman shouted from the audience. Donavan pointed to her.

"Yes, thank you, how can we have serial suicides?"

Lestrade tilted his head slightly as he answered the question as calmly as possibly. "Well, the suicides are all clearly linked. For example, these three individuals have all taken the same poison while in places they had no reason for visiting."

"Is it possible these could be murders?" this came from an older, mouse-like man in the corner.

"No, these are most definitely suicides...we have our best people working on it–"

Lestrade was interrupted by the sound of beeping throughout the audience. Even Lestrade's and Donavan's comms beeped.

"They all read...'wrong'," the mouse-like man held up his phone.

"Yes, ignore that," Lestrade said.

"But what if these are murders?" an older reporter asked. "How can the people of San Francisco keep themselves safe?"

"Well, don't commit suicide," Lestrade said.

The reporters all typed hurriedly away on their PADDs and comms.

"Listen, there's no need for panic–" Lestrade was interrupted by the beeping again.

"It says wrong again..."

Donavan leaned near Lestrade. "He's got to stop doing this."

He nodded and checked his comm as she spoke. He sighed as he read it:

**You know where to find me**

**-S**


End file.
